


strike us like matches

by ratherembarrassing



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:39:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherembarrassing/pseuds/ratherembarrassing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lack of walls makes them all a little loose with basic manners.</p>
            </blockquote>





	strike us like matches

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers up to and including 'I Do'.

The lack of walls makes them all a little loose with basic manners.

Things like dropping into the middle of someone’s conversation isn’t really rude when it’s probably ruder to not say anything at all. Things like borrowing each other’s clothes—although that’s really only Rachel making off with things belonging to either her or Kurt, except that one time Santana needed boots and, look, Rachel has some really nice boots.

Things like knocking.

Not that she cares, but Kurt doesn’t appreciate her wandering into the bathroom when he’s in the shower, despite her insistence that she  _really_  isn’t interested in whatever he’s hiding behind the shower curtain.

…

It doesn’t occur to her that she’s never seen Rachel naked until she sees Rachel naked.

…

She’s making fruit salad, and she can never remember if Rachel loves cantaloupe or if she hates it. It’s one of the two.

“Rachel!”

Rachel’s definitely there; Santana saw her dash from the bathroom to her bedroom a little while ago, and Rachel’s finally stopped sleeping five million hours a day, so she doesn’t bother with keeping her voice down.

“Rachel, what are your feelings on cantaloupe again?”

It’s her fruit salad, and she could just put it in since she likes the stuff. But she knows she won’t be the only one eating it, and she could be a bitch about it, but her moral code pretty much doesn’t let her be a bitch to pregnant teenagers.

(She was only ever a bitch to Quinn after the baby was born, and that one time about Puck, but she totally did Quinn a favor there, okay. And… look, she’s  _grown_  as a person, she can share her food. She’s not five years old.)

There’s no answer from Rachel, and for all Santana knows she’s about to walk into Rachel’s room and find her dead on the floor, so it’s not even about a lack of manners.

Rachel’s standing in front of her mirror.

That’s not the part that brings Santana to a stop, unable to do anything but stare helplessly.

…

It’s not her fault.

(It’s also not a new thing, and it’s only gotten worse since she’s been free to think these thoughts. Current circumstances? Haven’t really made a tiny bit of difference.)

…

The robe Rachel wears around when she’s going to shower is this silky thing that falls to her knees. It shouldn’t work this way, but the fact that it covers more of her legs than almost everything she wears somehow makes it even more attractive to Santana.

(She doesn’t understand her brain, either.)

So Rachel’s not exactly naked. But the robe’s hanging open, and almost everything’s  _there_ , thighs and hips and this tiny patch of hair and the round slope of stomach and—

And when did that happen?

She read some websites, just to, you know, know some things, and Rachel’s probably been showing for a few weeks now. But only a little, and the  _Wicked_  hoodie and the NYADA sweatshirt and the thieved oversized cardigans from Kurt suddenly make sense.

She can’t make herself look away, or announce her presence, or do anything but watch Rachel stand there, side on to the mirror as her hand smooths over her stomach. She watches Rachel watch herself, her hand curled protectively around the tiny bump that Santana’s brain insists on describing as cute.

_If only you knew how attractive you are_ , she thinks, teeth biting her lip so hard she tastes blood. She really needs to go now. But Rachel’s hand shifts to the side, and the robe falls open further, and Santana can’t stop the strangled noise from rising in her throat.

Rachel’s whole body twitches at the sound, and when she looks around to see Santana standing there her face does this thing where Santana can’t tell if she’s about to cry or yell but it’s going to be one of them.

“What are you doing?” She jerks the edges of the robe around her body, trying to pull the material closed at the same time as she tries to tie the belt around herself.

The flailing would be funny, except before she even has a chance to apologize, cover her eyes and back out of the room, Santana can see Rachel’s upset more than angry, so much so it’s messing with her ability to tie a simple knot. “Hey,” she says, coming further into the room, stilling Rachel’s hands. “Calm down.”

“Can you please get out?” Rachel asks, snatching her arms away, but Santana’s not going to leave and let Rachel think it’s okay to be embarrassed by this and she grabs Rachel’s hands again.

“Why?” Rachel makes a frustrated noise at the question. “So you can keep hiding away like this isn’t happening?”

She thinks Rachel’s going to fight her some more, especially when the muscles under her palms tense up. Instead, Rachel pulls her hands free, covering her face as she starts to cry.

In the last few months Santana likes to think she’s become something of an expert at dealing with Crying Rachel, and she slips the belt still in Rachel’s hands free to tie it closed before guiding Rachel to sit at the edge of her bed. It doesn’t even make her flinch when, once she slips her arm around Rachel’s shoulders, she buries her face against Santana’s neck.

“What’s wrong?” she asks when Rachel finally calms down enough to hear her ask.

“I’m pregnant,” Rachel says, pulling away slightly and rolling her eyes at herself. “You’d think I’d have worked that out by now but every day it’s a surprise all over again.”

Santana hums in amusement, but swallows back the snarky reply on the tip of her tongue. 

Rachel’s been fine for weeks now, as far as Santana knows, so there’s probably something specific bugging her that finally isn’t about Brody. “Anything particularly surprising today?”

One of the things she’s learned about Rachel is the girl can’t keep anything bottled up. The trick is to wait out her initial resistance and it eventually all comes pouring out. She already has a sneaking suspicion about what this is anyway, and when Rachel huffs out a sigh in the direction of her own stomach Santana thinks that’s enough of a confirmation that she’s right.

“Hey,” she says, ducking to catch Rachel’s eye. “You know I’m like, Ellen and Rachel Maddow’s lovechild levels of gay right?”

Rachel nods as she drags her finger under her eye, mascara and tears smudging across the skin.

It’s an incredibly bad idea to play this card. Rachel’s her roommate; her pregnant-enough-to-be-showing, single-because-Brody’s-a-dick roommate. But she can’t stop herself. Not when it’s true. Not when just how true it is was just on full display in front of her.

“You’re totally hot.” Her index finger reaches out to trace the curve of Rachel’s stomach through the silky material. “Even with this.”

Rachel shakes her head, and Santana could ignore the tiny intake of breath. She swears she could. But then Rachel sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and looks up at her through her eyelashes and what else is she supposed to do?

All she can think as she captures that lower lip’s mate between her own is,  _please don’t punch me_ , and then nothing else because—

They’re both perfectly still against each other, this silent moment where all Santana can hear is the sound of water running through pipes and the music from the bodega across the street, and then Rachel presses in for the tiniest moment before pulling away.

That tiniest moment is all Santana needs.

Rachel blinks at her, hand raising to touch her own lip softly. “You think I’m hot?”

A jolt of laughter escapes Santana, because  _of course_  that’s what Rachel’s most concerned about. “Yeah.”

“Even though I’m pregnant?”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?” She knows pregnant women get a little fuzzy—that reading she did was full of all kinds of useful knowledge—but seriously?

The smile across Rachel’s face would best be described as shit-eating. “You thought I was hot before I was pregnant,” she says, a hint of teasing in her voice.

Oh. 

“That’s— um.” She bites at her lip nervously, but apparently her moral code won’t let her lie to a pregnant teenager either. “Okay, yes.”

There’s a beat where she thinks Rachel’s going to laugh at her, until Rachel leans forward and captures her lips again.

_Oh_.

There are so many thoughts in her head that the only option is to shut that all down and just kiss Rachel back.

(There’s a moment before that where she manages to think,  _not like Brittany, and not like Quinn_ , but that’s really just the tip of the roommate-sized iceberg.)

At the slightest bit of encouragement, Rachel shifts in closer, hand coming to rest on Santana’s shoulder before skipping to her neck, to her cheek, to her hair, like she can’t decide where she wants to touch. Her other hand isn’t quite as indecisive, settling on Santana’s thigh.

Really far up Santana’s thigh, fingers pulsing with the rhythm of their kiss.

It’s only fair that she get to touch back. And she tries, hand roaming around,  hovering above Rachel’s body, but everywhere she wants to touch is so far out of the PG area when all it’s covered by is that robe, so she settles for resting her hand against Rachel’s side.

Her fingers scratch at Rachel’s skin through the material and Rachel hums against her lips, the vibration felt all the way to her toes.

There are a number of places this could go, and she’d settle for it not making this the number one most awkward living situation ever, but it’s not until Rachel twists around to swing her leg across Santana’s lap, stomach pressed against Santana’s and arms around her neck, that she actually gets that this is definitely going where she can admit she wants it to.

The thought makes her groan and she sets both her hands low on Rachel’s hips to steady her as she breaks off the kiss.

“You can say no if you want to,” Rachel says quietly, head tilting down to rest her forehead against Santana’s, and it makes Santana chuckle.

“I could say the same thing to you.” She pulls back enough to search out Rachel’s eyes. “No, seriously. This’ll be fun, and I really, really want to, but,” she shrugs, thumb shifting up to rub against the curve nearby. “It’s up to you.”

“Well if it’s up to me,” Rachel says quietly, pausing to push her hair back over her shoulders, “then I think you’re really, really going to get what you want.”

It shouldn’t be this easy. But if almost five years of knowing Rachel has taught her anything, it’s that Rachel knows what she wants, and with a groan Santana leans back in, dragging her mouth against Rachel’s and teasing it open to lick into her mouth.

That Rachel’s already practically naked against her is something she tries not to think about too much just for the moment.

Her hands refuse to stay still, and she tries to be polite, or at least sneaky, about how much she wants to touch Rachel everywhere, but there’s no real way to slip a boob grope in without someone noticing. Whatever, they’re doing this, so she skates her hand up Rachel’s side and settles it over her breast.

The sound Rachel makes at the back of her throat sends a flood of arousal through Santana and convinces her to stop second guessing herself. She thumbs at the nipple for a moment, but the material covering it is so slippery it’s wasted effort. Without giving it another thought she nudges the robe aside, and Rachel pulls away with a gasp when Santana’s fingers close around her nipple.

“God,” she pants, arching into Santana’s hand as her fingers thread into Santana’s hair. “That definitely feels different.”

For a second she wonders what it feels different from, but Santana works it out before she can ask a stupid question. She dips her head, nudging the robe open further, and when her tongue swipes across the other breast Rachel rocks forward so hard it sends them tipping back onto the bed.

Santana can definitely work with that. Especially when all Rachel does is plant her knees more firmly on the mattress, leaving herself within reach of Santana’s mouth. Her free hand’s lying uselessly against Rachel’s hip, and she grips Rachel tightly, pulling at her encouragingly. Rachel follows her lead, sinking down until they’re pressed together, and the fact that Rachel’s practically naked on top of her becomes less of an abstract thought when she can feel the heat from between Rachel’s legs through the material of her shirt.

Rachel sinks down further, Santana’s mouth coming away from her breast with a pop, until she can kiss at Santana’s neck, and ear, and mouth with lips so soft it doesn’t feel so much like a kiss as an exploration.

And it’s not like it’s hard to tug the robe down Rachel’s back and out of the way, not when Rachel lifts her arms to help, smiling against Santana’s mouth as she does, and then everywhere she touches is smooth, hot skin, and her eyes roll back in pleasure as she palms Rachel’s ass, urging her closer.

“Oh, it’s not fair,” Rachel gasps, head tilting back and back arching to press further into Santana. “You have more clothes on than I did.”

Santana takes it as a hint with a smirk that Rachel kisses until she shifts her grip and rolls them over until she’s settled over Rachel, a little to the side so as not to, like, crush the baby, if that’s even possible. 

(That sort of thing wasn’t covered in the things she read. She spares a thought for the moment she’d come across some article with a title like ‘Sex and the Pregnant Woman: What fun new things your body can do!’ and wishes she’d read it instead of closing out of the tab as fast as her finger could jab at the trackpad.)

Rachel’s smiling up at her though, and Santana’s in so much trouble because all Rachel does is give this little tug on the hem of her shirt and she’s sitting up across Rachel’s hips and pulling it over her head. She’s about to reach back to undo her bra until Rachel wiggles out from under her, just enough to sit up, too, and says, “Let me.”

Rachel’s arms thread around Santana’s torso, and she would be perfectly okay with staying like this for a while, the feel of Rachel solid against her, but Rachel pulls back to tug her bra down her arms and toss it away.

Her eyes are glazed as she grabs at Santana’s tits, completely transfixed as she thumbs at each nipple. “These,” she laughs, squeezing lightly, “were worth every cent.”

And god, that right there is what she likes about Rachel the most. She’s so utterly shameless about what she likes, and what she wants, and Santana is done messing about now. She needs to give Rachel exactly what she wants.

She nudges Rachel onto her back, and she whines when she can’t reach Santana’s breasts anymore. Santana stands and shimmies out of her jeans as quickly as possible without looking like a drunk giraffe, and then she’s back on the bed and sliding against Rachel’s body, pausing to bite at Rachel’s nipple before settling against her side to nuzzle at her neck.

“Santana,” Rachel says, when she doesn’t do anything besides lean against her, reveling in the feel of skin against skin, and Rachel’s fingers tug at her hair as she bites at the skin beneath her lips. “Please.”

She lets her hand wander, down and over Rachel’s hip, back up to circle around her breasts, and then down around her stomach. It’s something of a test, but when all Rachel does is draw her leg up to press her foot flat against the mattress, spreading herself wide to Santana’s gaze, Santana drags her hand lower to cup her palm against Rachel.

She’s so wet Santana can feel it smeared across Rachel’s thigh, and something about how much Rachel wants this makes her hand twitch, her fingers pushing between Rachel’s folds without her permission, Rachel moaning at the contact.

Rachel doesn’t seem to have a problem with the inelegant way Santana’s fumbling through this, but she gives herself a mental slap and focuses on finding out exactly how Rachel likes to be touched.

It shouldn’t surprise her that Rachel puts her whole body into it. But the difference between the vague thought that someone’s probably pretty decent in bed and witnessing them roll their hips against your hand as they cry out loudly enough to make your ears ring is enough to have her grinding against Rachel’s hip, even as she rolls her fingertip up and across the top of Rachel’s clit, along the edge of the hood, with enough pressure that the hand Rachel has threaded through Santana’s hair tightens into a fist.

When she does it again, that fist becomes painful, yanking Santana’s hair in a way that should not feel that good. “I don’t know what else you want to do here,” Rachel says around a breath, eyes fixed on where Santana’s moving against her, “but you need to be inside me now.”

Santana captures her lips again, for good luck or something, before pulling herself away from Rachel’s hip and sitting up on her knees between Rachel’s legs to—

“What are you doing? Come back here,” Rachel whines, hand reaching out to where Santana is trailing her hands up Rachel’s legs.

“Shhhh.” Santana captures Rachel’s hand, presses it into the mattress. “Just wait.”

“I don’t want to wa—” Her words trail off into a moan as Santana presses into her, two fingers shallowly dipping in to drag across the sensitive flesh just inside, and she stifles a laugh when Rachel’s eyes roll back before the close.

She loves that she knows how to do this, knows from a drunken evening—when she’d first moved in and Rachel thought that as the only two females in the apartment they should “bond”—that no one’s ever been that good at getting Rachel off without her helping out, and she grins at the sight of Rachel writhing against the mattress, hands fisted in the sheets and very much not helping out.

She sinks in deeper, and Rachel shudders as her fingers curl, walls beginning the flutter around Santana.

It won’t be long now, and she’s kind of glad because her own hips are rocking against nothing and she brings her knees together for even a tiny bit of relief. It doesn’t help. She thumbs at Rachel’s clit with her free hand, and the pitch of Rachel’s moan doesn’t help either.

“Can you,” Rachel gasps, hips rolling up and into Santana’s hand, “harder.”

Santana can and she does, throwing her weight behind the force of her arm. She watches her fingers disappear into Rachel, and the fact that she’s  _watching her fingers disappear into Rachel_  makes her huff a tiny laugh.

Rachel flutters her eyes open, fixing them on Santana. “What’s so funny?”

Santana switches the thumb that’s working against Rachel’s clit, freeing up a hand so she can move back to lie beside Rachel without falling face first into the mattress. “Nothing,” she says when she’s settled without so much as wavering in the rhythm she’s got going between Rachel’s legs. “I just like this is all.”

“Me too,” Rachel pants, fisting Santana’s hair to pull her into a kiss that only lasts a moment before Rachel’s pulling away and gasping, “don’t stop,” against her lips as she clutches as Santana’s shoulder.

Santana has no intention of stopping, not when the rock of Rachel’s hips increases. Not when the hand in her hair is fisted so tightly. Not when Rachel shudders against her. Not when the sounds of appreciation she’s been making are choked off as she comes, clenching around Santana’s fingers and through her entire body, the hold on Santana’s shoulder turning vicious as Rachel’s nails dig in helplessly.

When she can, Santana strokes her through the pleasure until Rachel makes her stop with this quiet laugh, and she buries her face in Rachel’s neck because  _fuck_.

“You know, I’ve never done this.” The tone would be almost conversational if not for the breathy thread of satiation. Santana leans back, eyebrow raised in question and Rachel continues. “Not because I didn’t want to, but who exactly would I have done it with in high school?”

Who indeed. This brings up an interesting idea though, and Santana leans in to kiss across Rachel’s jaw and up to her ear.  “You still got any of those skirts?”

Rachel chuckles, head tilting to allow Santana better access. “I don’t think any of those are going to fit for a while.”

Her hand trails up, and settles low across Rachel’s stomach. “Maybe later, then,” she says, watching Rachel’s face.

“Maybe later.”

…

Kurt comes home like five seconds after she’s come against Rachel’s mouth (Did  _not_  see that one coming) and Rachel laughs at her as she struggles back into her jeans. She’s all sweaty and it’s gross, and when Rachel makes a pouty face at her she rips a dress off the clothes rack behind her and tosses to where Rachel’s still spread out across the jumble of sheets.

“You should wear that,” she says, and when Rachel looks skeptical she presses a quick kiss against her lips. “Seriously.”

…

The fruit salad’s still sitting on the kitchen bench, and she nods at Kurt as she goes to see if it’s salvageable.

She’s wrapping the cantaloupe up—she’s pretty sure Rachel hates it—when Rachel steps out of the bedroom, and Santana watches her smooth the dress down over her hips.

“Oh my god, you’re pregnant!” Kurt gasps, dramatics turned up to eleven. He’s joking, and Rachel rolls her eyes, but she still blushes and Santana punches Kurt in the arm.

“I’ll admit,” Santana says, licking a stray drop of juice from her finger, “that dress is okay.”

“Mhmm,” is all Rachel says, but she comes over and snags a piece of apple from the bowl, grinning at Santana when Kurt’s back is turned.


End file.
